


ἈΓΆΠΗ ΑΙΏΙΟΣ (Agápe Aiόnios)

by PunsBulletsAndPointyThings



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Hellenistic Religion & Lore
Genre: Demisexual Characters, Everyone is Queer, F/F, F/M, Genderfluid Characters, M/M, Modern AU, Other, Poetry, nonbinary characters - Freeform, polyamourous characters, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 18:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13346724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings/pseuds/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings
Summary: So, I had an amazing class on the use of Ancient Greece and Rome in modern pop culture last semester, and for my final assignment, I was given basically the all-clear to do whatever I wanted.So, of course, I wrote fan fic. Just, you know, classy, prose poetry fan fic.It's still modern au, though.As such, we begin with our re-incarnated narrators, Homer and Hesiod.Enjoy!





	1. ΆΡΧΉ

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had an amazing class on the use of Ancient Greece and Rome in modern pop culture last semester, and for my final assignment, I was given basically the all-clear to do whatever I wanted.
> 
> So, of course, I wrote fan fic. Just, you know, classy, prose poetry fan fic.
> 
> It's still modern au, though.
> 
> As such, we begin with our re-incarnated narrators, Homer and Hesiod.
> 
> Enjoy!

            Shelves  
line walls that climb  
            towards the heavens  
like towers  
            or columns  
filled with texts  
            holding up civilizations  
cultures  
            histories.

 

_“ἄνδϱα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα,_  
            πολύτϱοπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ  
πλάγχθη, ἐπεὶ Τϱοίης ἱεϱὸν  
            πτολίεθϱον ἔπεϱσεν.”

 

_“Arma virumque cano”_

 

            “ _Hwæt! Wé Gárdena     in géardagum_  
þéodcyninga     þrym gefrúnon·  
            hú ðá æþelingas      ellen fremedon.”

 

Stories and tales  
            myths and legends  
gathered with care  
            learned with pride  
shared with confidence  
            the power of words  
the trade of a bard.

 

            And in the center of it all,  
that swirl of controlled chaos,  
            a hunched figure sits  
muttering words  
            obscured to an observer  
fingers moving  
            quick and sure  
across sheets of paper

 

            Stories spin  
woven words  
            wrapping and twisting in the air.

 

A door opens  
            the spell breaks  
with the cold swell of air  
            that knocks a paper from its place  
of honour  
            at the blind bard’s elbow.

 

They sit up with a scowl  
            that could melt metal,  
snap:

 

            _Hesiod! Shut the door!_

The man does as he is told  
            shaking snow from his hair and clothes.

 

_You forgot to turn the lights on again._

_Why bother? I don’t need them._

_But I do._

_You weren’t home._

_I was working!_

_Oh?_

A challenge.

 

_I was._

 

Sounds filter from another room,  
            running water  
a stove lighting  
            the squeaky hinges of the far-left cupboard.

 

            _Tea?_

_Please. Tell me what you saw._

_You have to share as well._

_Gentlemen first._

_As you wish, oh Great Homer._

He squeezes their shoulder,  
            and they reach up  
taking the offered cup  
            without a flinch or tremble  
hands as sure as their voice.

 

            As they drink,  
he sits  
            chair squeaking  
displaying his location.

 

            Comfort hangs  
think in the air,  
            familiarity,  
a pattern  
            long since learned  
and established.  
            A moment of silence,  
a calming,  
            a gathering of thoughts  
and memories  
            words carefully chosen  
from the ocean available.

 

            _Well, first_  
I was walking down the road,  
            thought I’d stop for coffee,  
you see—  
            Oh, don’t make that face at me  
just because you don’t like them  
            doesn’t mean the rest of us  
can’t enjoy Starbucks from time  
            to time.

_Heathen._  
  


_You love me. Now  
do you want me to tell you or not?_

_…go on._

_Well, as I was saying_  
            I was walking down the street,  
and that’s when I saw her…


	2. ARIADNE & DIONYSUS

 

Ariadne walks  
            steady and sure  
a Force to be feared  
            not reckoned with.

 

She is haunted no longer  
            by the ghosts of her past,  
has made her peace  
            and  
it seems  
            haunts her ghosts in return.

 

Or at least  
            one ghost in particular.

 

Ariadne walks  
            made strong―  
stronger―  
            by her peace.  
It is, she knows,  
            a success all are able to achieve.  
Though, having eternity on her side  
            probably helps.

 

She walks  
            head held high  
and the smile on her painted lips  
            carries the surety  
of a queen  
            confident of her throne.

 

You would never know her age  
            at a glance.  
She fits into her world like she was born to it  
            (Which, of course  
she wasn’t.)  
            Her past does not define her

 

and for those who know what to look for  
            it shows.

 

Not all those who continued  
            have fared  
quite so well.

 

            She sees him,  
the ghost,  
            and is not surprised.  
She has seen him before.  
            In this life,  
and others.  
            He comes and he goes  
like a drunken tide;  
            not quite reliable,  
but not so gone as to be random.  
            It is,  
she thinks,  
            very in character, for him.

 

Theseus doesn’t recognize her this time,  
            not right away.  
Sometimes he does;  
            he often tries to avoid her, those times,  
spends a life  
            running.  
Always glancing behind,  
            looking over his shoulder.  
It makes her laugh;  
            what does he think she’ll do?  
String him up for her own vicious amusement?

 

            ( _That,_ her husband says, when she  
speaks these thoughts aloud, _is exactly what you would do._  
            Not always, she protests, but her smile   
says otherwise  
            and his says he knows,  
as he kisses her fingers.)

 

But this time, she knows him  
            before he even sees her.  
He looks younger this time  
            than the last  
with neat hair and the same smooth smile  
            smooth like glass  
but not glass― a mirror.  
            Showing exactly what you want to see  
with no sign of what lays behind it.

 

            He sits at a table  
in the window of a café by the river,  
            talking to a pretty girl  
a few years younger than himself.  
            Already, Ariadne can hear  
the pretty lies he must be telling her.  
            Few things in this world are eternal  
but rot is hard to truly erase,  
            a few strands always linger behind, ready to grow.

 

            She checks her watch  
and cocks her head  
            lingers under the awning  
(blue and white stripes)  
            and waits.

 

And he looks up  
            as he always does.

 

The colour drains from his face  
            when he sees her there  
and she smiles  
            like the snap of a trap.

 

She read something once,  
            “Hell hath no fury  
Like a woman scorned.”  
            They are sweet words  
The finest wine  
            She does love them so.

 

And so she stares,  
            Unmoving, unswayed,  
undaunted by the passing years  
            and ever present reminder  
that she has not forgotten  
            and does not forgive.  
She stares, and he squirms  
            but he cannot look away.  
The poor girl at his side has noticed by now,  
            and confusion paints her face.  
For her, Ariadne has no anger,  
            After all,  
Theseus has been playing this game  
            for years  
He is, if nothing else,  
            a master at his craft.

 

Someone wraps an arm around her shoulders.

 

            _My love, there you are._

She smiles  
            slow, like a cat  
liquid and pleased,  
            makes a show of breaking the stare.

 

For all she torments him  
            she does not miss him.

 

_Hello, my dear._

Dionysus’ smile  
is sharp  
            in a way hers  
could simply never be.  
            She lacks the years  
and divinity  
            for the subtle edge  
that curls at the seam  
            of his perfectly painted  
mouth  
            like a snake  
hidden in grass, ready to strike.  
            He has seen Him too.

 

_Still kicking, is he?_

_So it seems._

_Tch. Pity._

Dionysus’ lips are painted like the wine  
once poured to him  
            in temples  
and in halls.  
            The purple  
of ecstasy  
            and release.  
Modern wine really cannot compare.

 

            When he takes her hand  
his nails match,  
            carefully shaped and painted  
a panther’s claws  
            hidden behinds femininity’s  
perceived weakness.

 

            (She always did appreciate that,  
even gods were not immune to that falsehood  
            but not him.)

 

_Shall we leave the worm to his meal?_  
            Or stay and watch him writhe  
a little longer?

            He really does always know  
the right thing to say.

 

            _He writhes the best  
when I walk away._

His smile bubbles like champagne  
she can feel it under skin.  
            Theseus’ gaze prickles down her spine,  
she tangles her fingers with Dionysus’  
            and straightens her shoulders.

 

_Lead on, my dear._

He laughs and kisses her knuckles  
leaving a smear of wine violet  
            vibrant and deep against her skin.

 

_I found a new bar.  
            I think you will like it._

 

They walk, together  
            matching steps  
matching hearts.

 

_Oh?_

_There were drunk classics student_  
            they kept invoking my name.  
I suspect finals.

His smile is soft  
            and she laughs.

 

_Poor dears._

He waves a hand.

 

_Athena was keeping an eye on them._

_I know you were too._

_Well…maybe just a little. Don’t laugh!  
            They’re my worshippers._

Ariadne tips her head  
            up towards the sky  
and laughs  
            no cruelty  
just joy  
            as she squeezes  
his divine hand  
            tight in hers  
and thinks,  
            just how lucky she was  
that he found her on that island  
            so long ago.

 

_I said don’t laugh!_

_I’m not!_

They have had centuries together  
            and they will have centuries more  
and Ariadne walks  
            unhindered  
not lost  
            not forgotten.


	3. HADES & PERSEPHONE

           There is a house  
have you seen it?  
            It sits at the end of a street  
tall, and dark, and grand.  
            The neighbours,  
don’t speak about it,  
            if they can avoid it,  
and use hushed whispers  
            when they can’t.  
They turn their eyes away as they pass.

 

            The house  
is wrapped  
            all ‘round with gardens.  
As the winter chill frosts the windows, they sit  
             bare  
and still  
            skeleton trees calling out hollow songs  
as the silent earth sleeps.  
             But in the summer  
it is nearly unrecognizable.  
            Vibrant and alive  
with colour and growth.  
            A reminder.  
A promise.  
            Each branch and bloom whispering:  
_I will be home soon  
            I promise._

The gardens are ringed  
            with a fence  
tall and uninviting  
            with a large sign  
hastily zip-tied  
            to the bars:

 

**_Beware of the Dog_ **

****

            It is an important instruction.

 

Inside,  
             the happy couple  
lay together  
            curled together  
bound together  
            Life and Death  
Summer and Winter  
            Unified in their opposition  
And oh so in love.

 

            Persephone cards calloused dark fingers  
Through her husband’s hair,  
            dark as coal and soft as silk,  
and laughs.

 

            _You’re a regular old house cat,  
aren’t you, my dear?_

 

            Hades hums,  
too pleased to respond.  
            He looks a little too like  
the skeletons and spirits he rules  
            for Persephone’s tastes.  
Ever-pale skin a touch too pinched  
            Cheeks a little too gaunt  
Ribs a little too sharp.

 

            She sighs.

 

_You weren’t eating properly._

He opens one eye,  
peers at her.  
            An arched brow  
paints a hint of a blush across his cheeks.

 

            _I ate,_

he argues,  
            and pulls free  
from her fingers  
            to stretch,  
pointing his toes and arching his back  
            long fingers stretching out,  
as his spine lets out a scale of tiny pops.

 

            There is admiration in his wife’s eyes  
when he finishes  
            and he smiles.

 

_I missed you._

 

            She sighs like the wind  
soft as a spring breeze  
            (but not always;  
she can be hard, and cruel,  
            sharp as a famine  
cold as a northern storm.)  
            and leans into the offered kiss.

 

_And I you, my heart._

_My Queen,_

he whispers, kisses her freckles  
            pieces of sunlight, stuck to her copper skin.  
            He understands them―  
he too, would never leave her touch  
            if only he were able.

 

Together,  
            they linger.  
They have been apart too long.

(Persephone’s days  
are no longer tied so tight to the passing seasons  
             but still  
her mother gets touchy  
            if she is ‘gone’ too long  
and in truth,  
            Hades has never made a habit  
of actively angering his siblings.)

 

(That was always Zeus’ job.)

 

And so  
            together  
They savour the peace  
            of a reunion long anticipated.

 

At last,  
            they stir  
smile and rise,  
            bare feet on obsidian floors  
cool to the touch  
            but distinctly _home_.

 

They dress,  
            though her feet stay bare  
and his hair falls loose  
            and move together through their home  
that for them  
            could never feel cold.

 

Their home is filled with plants  
            and sits on the border  
between the realms of Life and Death.  
            Past the stoic exterior  
it holds a constant stream  
            of activity and life  
(well…death,  
            if one looks  
at the technicalities.)

 

            Thanatos and the Furies,  
An array of nymphs, Circe,  
            Hermes, too fast,  
living quicksilver,  
              herding souls with unflagging cheer,  
talking a mile a minute  
            until Hades flees the noise for his study  
(His nephew knows his job,  
            he doesn’t need Hades to watch him.)  
The three judges nag like no other  
            and Persephone is unsympathetic  
to Hades’ plight  
            just laughs at him  
because she is cruel  
            and clearly doesn’t love him  
or she would save him from the never-ending  
            unceasing  
stream of people.

 

            He says so to Cerberus  
but the dog has long since  
            picked favorites  
and once again  
            it was not a competition Hades won.

 

Persephone stands in the doorway  
            watching one-sided conversation  
as Cerberus  
             does his best  
to lick his master’s face.  
            He has a better shot at it than most dogs.  
She smiles  
            when the hell-hound makes Hades overbalance  
            toppling him backwards.

 

Her husband’s laugh  
            was rusty from lack  
of use  
            the first time she heard it.  
No longer is that the case;  
            now the sound is warm  
strong  
            like the gemstones he plucks  


from the dark earth  
            as easily  
as she picks fruit from the trees.  
            And it is just as sweet  
as the pomegranate seeds  
            that first passed her lips  
so long ago.

 

            So many times  
she has been asked

 

            _Do you regret it?_

She has never hesitated in her answer.

 

            _Never._


	4. EROS & PSYCHE

Eros wakes  
            slow  
soft.  
            The bed is empty  
but still warm.

 

            They stretch,  
point their toes  
            then curl them in the sheets  
pulling muscle and sinew taut  
            before relaxing back again.  
(No matter  
            the passage of time  
bodies remain fascinating things.)

 

            They rise and stretch again,  
with long limbs they did not have the day before.  
            And in the bathroom, she smiles  
runs fingers through short hair,  
            ruffled and mussed by sleep.  
It’s the work of minutes  
            to buzz down one side,  
filling the sink with ginger strands  
            that drift like sparks in the air.

 

She’s tall, today  
            taller than yesterday,  
which makes standing disorienting  
            just for a moment.  
It’s something she still has not gotten used to.  
            Even after centuries  
height changes leave her head spinning.

 

            The green shirt  
(That does not,  
            for all she tries  
_actually_ belong to her)  
            hangs loose from her shoulders

 

shift as she walks  
             like winds  
or tides.

 

            (One of these days  
Hermes will make good on his threats  
            And steal it back)

 

(Today is not that day.)

 

            Their home is small,  
quiet,  
            warm.  
Secluded without isolation.  
            (Without her mother’s constant presence.)

 

            Eros wanders barefoot  
towards the kitchen  
             and finds Psyche on the porch,  
exactly where  
            she expected,  
watching the sun rise past the trees,  
            liquid gold  
filtering through winter branches  
            pine green and birch pale  
to catch and dance in her ebony-dark curls.

 

            Her dark skin is specked  
like pure starlight dripped from the heavens  
            leaving behind thousands of stars;  
too many to count  
            (She knows,  
she’s tried.)  
            And a purple butterfly  
decorates the nape of her neck  
            as bright and cheerful  
as she.

 

            Steam  
curls up from the mug  
            Psyche holds tight and close―  
caffeine,  
            better than ambrosia,  
she swears―  
            and from her lips  
as she breathes  
            warmth out  
into the chill morning air.

 

            Snow dusts the trees  
but Psyche’s feet are bare.  
            She seems oblivious  
to the fact that her toes  
            are slowly turning blue.

 

Eros shivers  
            turns on a heel  
and returns with socks,  
            (hand-made, a present from her…aunt?)  
a blanket,  
            (Psyche found it at a book store  
fluffy and softer than the softest fur)  
            and a mug of tea for herself.

 

_Good morning, lazybones,_

            Psyche says  
as Eros joins her,  
            covers her stars with the blanket  
feels her lean against her side.

            _Not all of can us get up before Apollo._

She grumbles, as she kisses the dark curls  
            feels laughter vibrate against her ribs.

 

_I like the sunrises._

 

            Eros shivers.

 

_It’s freezing!_

            Psyche purses lips  
that entranced Love itself  
            in all her( _his_ )( _their_ ) forms  
and hides a laugh in her tea,  
            pulls the blanket tighter around them both  
and then sets their mugs aside to tug her wife’s face to her own.

 

            **_Later…_**

****

Eros wanders,  
            breath fogging before him  
as he moves  
            gravel and snow  
crunching under his boots.  
            His hair is dark and curled today  
and he has a beard  
            which he loves.

 

February snow  
            drifts in the air  
and all around  
            Eros sees couples  
past,  
            present,  
and future.

 

            He has….  
Psyche calls them ‘mixed feelings’  
            (Eros thinks that might  
be putting it too nicely)  
            about this month. This day.  
It’s not _really_ his day  
            after all.  
But still  
            he gets tied to it  
can’t shake it  
            and  
well  
            hey.  
Love is love.

 

            Eros settles himself  
on a park bench  
            mostly free of slush  
and watches  
            with a secret smile  
as two girls  
            no older than seventeen  
walk, shoulder to shoulder  
            hands joined  
cheeks red  
            and not just from the cold.

 

For all that  
            it has become a capitalist extravaganza  
and the humans insist on portraying him  
            as a baby of all things.  
A baby!  
            (He has not been a baby in centuries,  
perhaps longer,  
            and can look like  
literally  
            anyone.  
But no.  
            They stick with the Judeo-Christian  
baby.  
            And Hermes will never  
_never_  
            let Eros forget it.)  
For all that,  
            he has to admit  
he enjoys the happy couples.

 

            For a moment longer  
he watches the girls  
            can see  
in his mind’s eye  
            how the bow curves  
the string pulls taught  
            how the golden shaft flies  
unhindered,  
            straight,  
(he snickers to himself at his own joke)  
            and true,  
then watches the girls press closer  
            as laughter rings out  
in the frost-filled air.

 

            He sighs.  
He really does love his job.

 

            _I thought I might find you here._

Chilled fingers press against his neck  
            creeping under the collar of his shirt.  
He yelps  
            squirms away  
and her laughter rings out like a bell.

 

            He turns to scowl  
and is met with a soft kiss

 

            _Happy Valentine’s Day._

_Is it that time already?_

She laughs and moves  
to join him on the bench  
            follows his gaze to where the two girls  
are turning a corner,  
            moving out of view  
but not so far out of sight  
            that the golden glow  
encircling them  
            is hidden from her sharp eyes.

 

_Aw, young love.  
            How sweet._

She squeezes his hand.

 

            _Remember when we were like that?_

He snorts.

 

            _You mean back when I had to_  
_stay invisible_  
_and then my mother nearly killed you?_  
_Ah yes, how romantic._  
_Truly a love story for the ages._

Psyche rolls her eyes to the heavens  
            but her smile is constant and warm.

 

_Well I like that story,  
            it had the best ending._

Eros softens,  
            interlocks their fingers  
and brings their hands up  
            to brush his lips  
feather-light  
            across her now glove-covered knuckles.

 

_You are right, my wise wife._  
       _I was mistaken,_  
_it is a good story._

            He grins, impishly  
wide and sharp like the troublemaker  
            he so often is.

 

_That Eros guy_  
     _sure is lucky._  


_He is, isn’t he?_

Psyche grins  
and then giggles  
            as Eros waggles his eyebrows at her  
and then pulls her in  
            for a kiss  
that is all love  
            a love  
that outlasted trials  
            and time.  
The Sacred Marriage  
            of Love and the Soul  
vibrant and strong.  
            Everlasting.  
Regardless of form.


	5. APHRODITE & HEPHAESTUS

            He’s kept his forge  
even after so long.  
            It’s smaller now  
but just as warm  
            and strong.

 

Aphrodite loves to watch her husband work.  
            She knows people talk  
knows what they say

 

            _Ugly_  
Misshapen  
            Grotesque

She knows what they say of her too  
            but she has never agreed  
with the summery  
            assigned by them to him.

 

But she is  
            after all  
the goddess of love and beauty.  
            She has always considered herself  
the expert,  
            she can see things  
blind mortals cannot.

 

            Her husband is beautiful,  
bent over his work,  
            the firelight dances  
across the copper  
            of/under  
his fingers.

 

            The air smells like heat,  
sweat and molten metal.  
            His hair

 

all dark curls of blackened steel  
            sits piled and twisted atop his head,  
curls she can bury her fingers in  
            and pull.  
The thought makes her smile.

 

            She sits,  
watches.  
            He knows she’s there  
but does not speak  
            too focused on the task at hand.  
shaping,  
            creating.

 

They are both creators  
            in their own ways  
and they both take pride  
            in their works,  
Masters of their crafts.

 

            She carries her own marks of his skill  
(Just like he carries hers;  
             she can see one of them now  
nearly hidden in the shadows  
             but still visible, just below his ear.)  
Girdles, rings, bracelets,  
            all of stunning beauty and strength.  
And then,  
            more recently  
elegant designs of copper and gold  
            that shift and swirl on her skin  
dancing in the forge light  
            encircling her right calf and the upper half of her left arm.

 

            His hands had been perfectly steady  
that night  
            as he worked on her skin.  
She had not hesitated to agree  
            when he had suggested  
and offered them.  
            She trusts him  
utterly.  
            Completely.

 

Oh, she knows the stories,  
            some of them are even true.  
But they are gods  
            they have lived for longer than  
any mortal could conceive of.  
            They aren’t _people_  
in the same way mortals are.  
            Especially for Aphrodite  
and the rest of her line.  
            Her domain is no physical object or craft—  
            it has physical manifestations  
but at its core  
            she stands  
for an emotion  
            an idea  
intangible  
            unclaimable  
(though many have tried.)

 

            So yes,  
she knows the stories.  
            Has heard the lies  
and the truths;  
            the accusations  
and boasts.

 

            She will be the first  
to admit  
            that her marriage  
has not been perfect.  
            It took them a long time  
to find their rhythm,  
            their equilibrium.  
But they did find it  
            eventually.

 

She is not a monogamous creature,  
              While Hephaestus  
takes time  
              to find attraction in others.  
They’ve talked about it.  
            They’ve talked about it with Ares too.  
Polyamory is hardly just for mortals.

 

            Aphrodite smiles.  
Hephaestus’ hammers rings,  
            the music of the forge vibrating  
in her bones,  
            the music of comfort  
of familiarity  
            of home.

 

_Hephaestus?_

 

            The music pauses.  
He straightens  
            turns  
cocks his head, raising one eyebrow  
            dark eyes curious.

 

_Yes, my gem?_

She smiles  
rises  
            pulls him close.

 

_Have I told you_  
            that I love you  
today?

_Not today._

She smiles  
            like the rising sun  
and he thinks  
            he will never create a piece  
quite so beautiful.

 

_I love you._

He laughs,  
            cups her face  
in broad,  
            calloused hands—  
hands that tell all the stories  
            his words never manage;  
stories of his work  
            his life  
his passions.

 

            They are beautiful,  
beautiful hands.  
            Aphrodite loves his hands.  
Even before she loved the rest of him  
            his hands caught her attention.

 

_You are beautiful,_

She whispers  
as he kisses her  
            all gentleness  
contained within the strength  
            of his form.

 

His smile heats her skin  
            like when she stands too close  
to his forge-fires.  
            He understands  
what she means  
            when she says that.

 

_I love you too._


	6. ΤΈΛΟΣ

Silence falls.  
            Then a breath,  
a huff  
            a sigh.  
They lean back in their chair  
            arms crossed  
disbelief.

 

            _Pictures of domestic bliss.  
I don’t believe you._

_My friend, I’m hurt!_

He laughs  
            changing the meaning of his words  
the spoken power

 

            _Why would I lie to you?_

_Because you take joy  
            in stringing me along._

_I would never._

_Lies._  
Besides  
            they are gods  
they are different from us  
            mere mortals.

_We hardly count as mere mortals  
            these days._

_Hardly the point._  
They are gods,  
            to be worshipped  
and feared.

Bitter laughter.

 

_But who does that these days?_

 

            A sigh.

 

_They are old, my friend._  
            Older than you or I  
could begin  
            to comprehend.  
Can they not have  
            this time  
to embrace the world they  
            exist within?  
And besides, there are still those  
            who worship them  
in their own ways.

            _They have forgotten the ways._

_“The love of the gods belongs to anyone_  
            who has given to true virtue  
and nourished it.”

_Don’t quote Plato at me._

_Then stop arguing with me._

_Hesiod, when I am arguing,_  
you will know  
            trust me.

Laughter,  
            the kind of one  
who has long-since learned  
            to translate  
and pick up the unsaid.

 

            _Of course, my dear._

Hesiod stands  
            stretches,  
groans.

 

            Homer’s eyes narrow,  
until he sits again,  
            and leans in.

 

They know he is smiling  
            cannot see it  
but they just _know._

 

            _What are you smirking about?_

_Nothing.  
            But it is your turn now._

_Oh?_

_Mmhm._

They hum,  
            set down their mug  
crack their knuckles  
            making Hesiod wince.

 

_Well then,_  
            I suppose the best place  
to start  
            would have to be  
the beginning.


End file.
